


hatsukoi

by mika60



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, angst with an ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mika60/pseuds/mika60
Summary: His love, always a favorite t-shirt overwashed, water damage upon screenprint marking endless ironies - to care for, tolovesomething, anything,everythingwith all his might, yet only leave wear and tear behind.“Did you ever love me? More than volleyball?”In 2025, Miya Atsumu returns to Japan for an unspoken vow.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 114
Kudos: 389





	hatsukoi

**hatsukoi** [初恋] _n._  
first love.

Atsumu (love)

The jet bridge guides him into Narita on a muggy evening, staleness of an Air France fuselage stubbornly clinging to both lungs. Close behind, three years of an overseas league contract completes; the walk ahead, a short countdown marks almost three decades of life.

Atsumu has lost count of the days since full immersion in his mother tongue, the polite diction of airport announcements now alien, so contrarian to the foreign howls that have dominated his lexicon. Soft leather of a passport slots between his fingers, etched gold over burgundy a salute to high school uniforms and carefree days. _Ryoken,_ the cover reads - a ticket to the outside world he had so adamantly accepted. Its stamped pages now permit re-entry, planting him into homeland soil left barren.

Behind waist-level barriers in the Arrivals Hall stand two figures of his height - travelers from hours away; their faces familiar, even identical.

"Welcome back." Osamu drags him into an embrace as soon as he walks within reach.

"Samu.” He abandons luggage in favor of the hug, and futilely wishes that Suna’s phone camera aimed elsewhere. Soon, he’ll be another candid content piece on social media, a disheveled homecoming exposed to all eyes, breaking news ripe for commentary.

“Ya ready to face more rumors again?” As always, his twin sweeps at the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

Some things remain steadfast through three decades, yet - so much changes in three years.

"...how is he?" Atsumu mumbles, true to one everlasting instinct.

Against his body, a freeze precedes a sigh.

“We dunno.”

He feels himself shoved away, like unwanted answers to unwanted questions.

"Ya left him, Tsumu. How _should_ he be?"

==

He leaves Sakusa by the gates of the practice gym on that first evening, only to have the team rookie chase close behind.

“I...forgot the directions back to the apartments.”

There’s a twitch at the arch of his right brow, bizarre enough to make Atsumu swallow the suggestion of phone navigation instead. Perhaps, even Sakusa Kiyoomi is not immune to the nerves of being permanently far from home, or maybe, four years of university had wiped out his notorious preference for solitude. Either way, despite their on-court clash of personalities, he knows he’s still the one Sakusa has known the longest - and by default, the best.

So he nods his willingness to be dependable, and blinding yellow sneakers fall in step. It’s the same color from years ago, a flashing neon sign narrating their personal histories, the laces serving as their one common thread.

“I’ve always wondered, Omi-kun.” He mutters a likely unwanted question. “Was volleyball your first love, too?”

“...maybe.” To his surprise, Sakusa answers, though his sour look asserts _it will also be my last._

_Ah._ Between them does exist some mutual ground, with certain, impassable abysses.

Above the crevasse, Atsumu understands. They thrive on adrenaline, the sight of scoreboards blinking to 25 and victories. For the majority of their lives, the most undying beauty had always existed under stadium lights - so easy to adore, to dedicate their whole beings toward.

Morning walks to, evening walks back. They talk volleyball, volleyball, and more volleyball. Their precious sport, a welcomed third wheel.

Nothing ever measures up to a first love.

==

“Sometimes, I think _you_ were my first.”

==

Kiyoomi hates crowds, but loves him back with occasional reproach. He showers Atsumu with pent-up emotions never received by absent family, gestures stored gingerly over years of involuntary solitude. He’s everything Atsumu isn’t - all hard edges sharpened by independence, tactless words always camouflaging the true nature of a heart.

Kiyoomi jumps for his toss, and Atsumu falls.

_Beautiful._ This skydance he can lead. He falls for the one who dares to take that leap.

==

He devotes all his adolescent affections to leather and stitch, spherical clusters of air entrapped within. The surface never proves pliant, but paths remain loyal to his every whim. It bends to wordless commands from hands to hands, a tough exterior always concealing the true nature of its obedience.

The volleyball floats for him, and Atsumu falls.

_Beautiful._ This skydance he can create. He falls for a sport and all its promises.

==

They dance, literally, not among the clouds but emotions skyhigh, the Olympic flame a distant beacon from the rooftop celebration. All around their floating steps, champagne glasses fill and empty at will - _cheers, cheers,_ cheers to discs of bronze hanging from twenty-some necks, each shifting gold by the alchemy of candlelight.

“Let’s take a trip, after this.” Atsumu presses lips to a serene pulse. “Ya can pick the place.”

Sleeved arms wrap tighter around his neck, professing every coarseness of well-ironed cotton. “Sagami Bay, the Kanagawa side.”

“Mm. Kanagawa it is.”

They dance, as agreement and oath.

Volleyball thrills, while Kiyoomi is a chill. He moves as winter in summer: cold, criss-crossed hands soothing Atsumu’s tournament fatigue, drafty breaths ever quiet, ever faithful in their breeze. Through chest and vest, his is a rhythm that slows down all nearby internal clocks, reducing speed racer heartbeats birthed in Hyogo to a soothing bass.

Peace. He is _peace._ Peace in chaos. Peace in mind.

A piece of his mind.

==

“Did you ever love me? More than volleyball?”

==

From cloud nine, emotions plummet, the descent initiated by the slam of a door.

“You’re leaving Japan?”

Kiyoomi stands, beautiful in his devastation, a Japanese-Greek statue gasping to come alive via frantic breaths.

“You couldn’t give me a heads up? I had to find out through a viral _interview_ clip?”

Unblinking eyes aim a thousand more questions at him, demanding unwanted answers. Atsumu curses his big mouth first, then his forgetfulness at how fast an offhand quote travels in the information age. Megabytes, gigabytes per second, without catalyst or consideration of consequence. Certainly, he’s the one in their relationship guilty of impulsive decisions, composing one-day agendas instead of three-year plans. But for that one-year middle, he had estimated both their strength and endurance as statistical anomalies. Just as Kiyoomi had resisted touch itself early on, Atsumu had imagined no objection to being touchless for brief, future periods.

“I was gonna surprise ya--” He spreads both arms in approach, the precursor of hundreds of completed embraces - only for his other half to snap in reverse.

“Sur... _surprise?”_

“Ya know goin’ abroad has always been a dream of mine.” Nerves officially react to rejection, prompting elbows to curl and hands to clutch against his ribs. “Ya get it, right, Omi? I thought out of all people ya would understand. Volleyball...playin’ has always been everythin’ to us.”

This sport, his first love. Kiyoomi, one he will continue to love from a hemisphere away. It _is_ the information age, after all - a time where emotions traverse continents, discoverable within Parisian walkways or along the shoreline Kiyoomi adores.

And yet, like the bay, a pair of black-on-whites threaten to become reservoirs.

“I thought we would at least...discuss this _together.”_

“Omi... _”_ He aches at the sight - and his _oversight_ \- but fosters a smile. “We can Facetime everyday, and I’ll visit as much as I can! This will work out, ‘cuz ya know I lo--”

“But I want you. _Here._ Tossing to _me.”_

There’s a terrible irony behind the appeal, but Atsumu’s tongue ties knots rather than divulges. To admit his fate only exposes weakness he never wishes Kiyoomi to see - no, not ever, not amidst all their promises of flawless plays.

“I’ll return soon enough to do that. The contract’s only for a year!” He submits his own appeal instead.

The words backfire instantly, shelling reminders of separation rather than means of comfort. A staunch posture pivots, slanting until vertebrae knocks against the wood of their apartment door.

Atsumu’s ache deepens. “Can...can’t ya give this a try?”

“Am _I_ the one not trying?” Kiyoomi avoids his eyes, speaking ridicule towards the ground. _“You’re_ the one leaving, without notice.”

“I--I just wanna give new places a shot, before it’s too late.” _Places asking for me to belong._

“Was I ever enough for you, Atsumu?”

A doubt, seemingly long-held, voiced soft but edging emphatic.

“Did you ever love me? More than volleyball?”

Years since their first encounter on the court, a peace of mind relinquishes his role. Within their treasured home, he conveys a piece of his mind instead, prosecuting an indictment of two converged histories.

Atsumu senses the pre-set verdict, and clamors to his own defense.

“Did _you,_ Kiyoomi?”

The question stuns them both into silence, the lost decibels like evaporating dew on their morning walks, like meteorites burning up in the atmosphere. This affair, just as fleeting, and now deemed secondary to his contract with a first love. Within the permanence of printed pages emerge new clauses - signed, sealed, delivered - superseding one confession by the shore and all their spoken vows.

_“What will be your summer plans, Miya-senshuu, since you weren’t chosen for Japan’s National Team this year?”_

_“I---I’ll probably play for a while overseas. In Paris.”_

==

A URL arrives in France - _travel speed: 14 megabytes per second_ \- its letters enclosed securely within a blue bubble, a ruthless thumbnail displaying once beloveds.

_Seen this interview?_ follows without the delays of manual type, as if Osamu had prepared the text message in advance.

Atsumu sets down his espresso to dab at flakes of a foregone croissant - trying to salvage a good thing, to not squander it.

In due time, a pastry-less finger taps, and Kiyoomi centers on his phone screen, no longer donning Jackals black and gold. Below the bowing neckline is a terrible shade of lavender; while up top sits a longer fringe, its cascade hiding half of an unreadable face.

_About 4 cm longer._ Atsumu calculates. Craves.

A question sounds from off-camera.

"How are you faring, Sakusa-senshuu, without Miya Atsumu as your setter?"

The next ten seconds run silent, as if buffering at speeds much lower than 14 Mbps, or weathering an accidental tap of mute. But the clip forges on, fueled by the visual of Kiyoomi’s quickened blinks, lashes flicking away the mists of something tragic.

“I’m...perfectly fine.” 

At that spot unconcealed by dark waves, a twitch.

==

“Ya have a tell, Omi-kun.” He gleefully informs on the third day of their professional partnership. “When ya dun’ actually want me to send ya the ball.”

Sakusa tosses his head back for a swig of water, before tossing him a glare - scornful, but intrigued.

“What are you talking about?”

Atsumu’s arm lifts on its own volition, but as with three-day-long habits already learned, his wrist makes a timely retreat before contact. The whiplash leaves a fingertip distant, though still close enough to swell the whites of two startled eyes.

“There.” He gestures at that guilty territory above a right brow. “Ya twitch, right there - like ya _want_ me ta know yer jump isn’t sincere.”

_Sakusa jumps for his toss, invisible wings fluttering with measured doubt. A smooth forehead convulses, tugging skin and dual beauty marks upward, then back down to earth, like the rest of him._

_Atsumu sends the ball elsewhere, but falls anyway - for the leap, not the lie._

“How the hell did you even notice that during the play?” The leaper - the _liar_ \- embodies alarm, his grip upon the water bottle tightening, his jaw stiffening at secrets prematurely exposed.

“I see ya, Omi-kun.” With a sly smile, he declares himself judge and witness both. “Always.” 

==

He doesn’t see Kiyoomi at all.

Once, twice - an annual contract renews, a rental agreement extends, a life in foreign land prolongs. He makes no returns to Japan, upending roots from once fertile ground. Every off-season, spent on earning a few more Euros - no endorsement too small, no obligation too difficult. Family and friends come his way instead, cherishing a chance to explore _La Ville Lumière_ , and Atsumu learns to give the same tour down the Jardin des Tuileries paths twice a day.

“Come home.” His mother had pleaded once, on the Métro towards Porte Dauphine.

“I will - after I earn back my peace of mind.”

Greying eyebrows furrow with confusion, but no words follow disappointed sighs.

Osamu visits every May, ducking by himself into restaurants for the most extravagant form of research known to man. Atsumu seals his own wallet closed from any indulgence other than the thoughts of _100 square meters, oceanview,_ resorting to microwaved meals with no Michelin stars.

He accepts only a single call from Aran during Paris 2024, and never wanders close to the volleyball arena. Every Olympic match, watched from the counter of his favorite ramen shop in the 14th arrondissement, its tonkotsu broth reminiscent of Osakan nights. Every time, the benevolent, immigrant owner watches him in return.

“N'es tu pas aussi un joueur de volleyball?” _Aren’t you a volleyball player, too?_

“Konya wa akan’yan.” _Not tonight._

Japan suffers enough early losses to be eliminated before the knockout stage. The channel airs a brutal supercut of Kiyoomi’s unforced errors, mists of something tragic in his eyes. Within the same hour, Atsumu dozes off alone in the back of a taxi, its wheels speeding through maze-like Parisian streets - rushing, accelerating - a catalyst for dreams of #11, #15, 2021, and a rooftop dance.

_Not tonight._

==

Tonight is a first.

Thighs touch beneath the counter of their go-to ramen shop in Fukushima district, its walls barely enough to contain two giants. Nevertheless, the kitchen supplies all that’s necessary, replenishing carbohydrates and proteins alike. His boyfriend of six months sits rather than jumps, but Atsumu still admires each tedious movement of a utensil, each kiss to the bowl as a mouth savors.

_Beautiful._ This Kiyoomi he can fall for. _Has_ fallen for.

“I love ya, Omi.”

Not a first love, but a first confession, and the recipient nearly chokes on his current slurp.

Atsumu leans in closer, bearing witness but no judgment.

“Ya love _me?”_

“N...no.”

That forehead spot twitches as Kiyoomi kisses him silent. He is both a before _and_ after taste - everything pleasant, a sweetness even the brine of tonkotsu broth cannot overpower.

==

“I see ya, Omi-kun. Always.”

==

The blackness in his cup is an abyss, all bitter, no sugar. A taste of home soil, far from the richness of espresso on a Parisian streetside, where his ignorance had remained as candied as bliss.

There is a jingle as the cafe’s glass door opens, and four eyes connect while noise dissolves. He barely manages a wave, before Motoya immediately turns to leave.

“Wait, Moto-kun.”

Rounded brows cinch, the tautness enough to trigger a full-body pause.

_“Dammit._ I can’t believe Rin tricked me like this.” The new customer re-enters, but maintains a calculated distance. “Wel...welcome back, Atsumu.”

Atsumu sips, forcing a half smile through the flavor. “How is he?”

“He has a new circle of friends now.” With a single reveal, numerous suspicions manifest into truth. “I’m not allowed into his Instagram these days, and he never returns texts. I only find out updates from my uncle.”

_Dunno._ Osamu had said, forewarning him of barricades few could conquer.

Motoya slips into the opposite seat, hands interlocked above the tabletop.

“Listen, I think...Kiyoomi-kun might be _with_ someone else.” He speaks without euphemism. “But he hasn’t told any of us about it.”

Ignorance is bliss, a sweetness no other flavor can surpass, like a kiss in place of an admission of love. Amidst bitter drink, his ultimate naiveté forms different barricades, denying entrance to unwanted answers.

“Please, just tell me his new number.”

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“I want one more chance.”

A stare pierces with accusation. “Do _you_ think you deserve one?”

“Only one, I swear.” Choosing ignorance a final time, he deals his trump card in the process. _“Sagami Bay,_ Moto-kun.”

A sharp inhale cuts crevices through tense air. The heaviness of three-year doubts still weighs upon them both, but it lightens, ever so slightly, as the brunette retrieves a pen from his pocket.

Seconds later, a scribbled napkin lands.

“He would’ve never left _you_ behind.” Motoya admonishes, then does exactly that.

==

It happens, as organically as every other affection in Atsumu’s life. _Volleyball?_ Sure. _Setter?_ Sure. _Black Jackals?_ Sure.

_Sakusa Kiyoomi?_ Sure.

Sakusa never leaves him behind. He stays and anticipates Atsumu’s company for their daily walks. He stays, even when teammate after teammate takes off on their own adventures. He stays through over a thousand tosses, the snippy back-and-forths, the endless rumors that they are more than frenemies. He stays - above Atsumu’s sheets - after a celebration of an average victory lends itself to a not-so-average night. The taste of decent sake migrates between their mouths in the back of a taxi, its wheels speeding through neon-lit Osakan streets - rushing, accelerating - a catalyst for belated consummations.

He stays, tried and true, an unmistakable aftertaste.

“Might as well give in to all the rumors, right?” Atsumu quips from the mattress when Sakusa finally emerges from his shower, beautiful but slouching, a Japanese-Greek statue tilting off its axis.

“Your shampoo smells godawful.”

He fishes out a fresh bottle, still confined within a plastic bag stuffed beneath the bed. “Wanna try out the new one I got with me?”

“Hell no.”

_Twitch._

Hours later, he watches a spike from up close, catches a whiff of shared herbal scent, and spies the pruning of Sakusa’s fingertips from their extra long drench. The wrinkles are flaws of his making, less than ideal for the momentum of a kill, but Atsumu corrects the ball’s flight path as needed - ensuring control over a duality of devotions.

Volleyball, volleyball, and more volleyball. Their precious third wheel - no, they are _each other’s_ third wheels, spokes spinning not along Osakan streets but on restricted paths, interfering with years-long dedications to a court.

_Atsumu._ Sakusa whimpers to his rhythm.

_Miya._ Sakusa beseeches to his left.

Over gleaming wood, their eyes still pursue a ball above anything - or anyone - else.

Sakusa stays, he concludes, not for imperfect reasons with blond hair but for the perfection of a toss - that rare idealism of a first love, drawing cheers and triumph for all its virtues. Atsumu mars his own fingertips to maintain such a miracle, to keep the sport and all its promises intact for them both.

_The promise of a flawless play is the promise of a flawless love._

_Stay?_

Sure.

==

He keeps the promise to voyage across prefectures, grasping gaunt fingers already accustomed to his touch like a covenant, the Shinkansen their altar.

Mt. Fuji’s zenith stands afar in his vantage point, a symbol of grandeur always worth admiration. And yet, Atsumu remains drawn to more immediate scenery speeding past their curious eyes, the instant satisfaction of motion blurred greens, a sliver of ocean peeking from behind.

“So why’d ya choose the bay, Omi?”

“I went there often as a kid, with Motoya and his parents.” _Never his own parents, of course._

Atsumu suppresses the delight towards one of many untold stories, though his hand cannot hold back a squeeze. “Sounds like it could’ve been yer real first love, even before volleyball.”

“...maybe.” Kiyoomi’s gaze floats much more distant than his, captivated by the snowy peak, its winter in summer.

He squeezes again, demanding a focus on the _now,_ and neither past nor future.

“Ya love it there more than ya love me?”

Kiyoomi turns to him, blinks quickening, lashes flicking away the realization of something profound.

“Sometimes.”

_Twitch._

==

So much changes in three years.

==

He loves volleyball more than he loves Kiyoomi.

He had given, and Kiyoomi had returned in kind, filling abysses with whatever he shed of shell and skin, relinquishing all those impassable boundaries. But their sport - its everlasting allures - had always flashed up close and personal, distracting from what lies further in the distance. So at the first sign of damage, Atsumu had detoured, pouring his all to preserve the thrills of adolescence. 

And yet, eight months into a Paris tenure, his hands retrieve a future lost behind coastal memories. A video link arrives via text, and he stumbles afterward, devoting masochistic eyes to minutes upon minutes staring at a phone screen. Edited interviews with a broken spirit, archival footage of games previously ignored - Kiyoomi looks so wrong not donned in black and gold. _Their_ black and gold.

_No, wait._

It is _he_ who first abandoned what had been theirs. Atsumu, love incarnate, chasing after his first only to lose his last. 

Minutes upon minutes, he watches on from continents away, collecting broken promises to reassemble a flawed love.

He loves volleyball. He loves Kiyoomi.

He loves volleyball _with_ Kiyoomi.

With. _With._

Black _with_ gold, on their court. Love _with_ peace of mind, in their ramen shop. 

==

Rumors abound, trailing their secretive footsteps from ramen shop to home.

“I had to find out through _tabloids_ that ya two are datin’??!” Osamu berates to kick off a 6:22am phone call, when Atsumu’s bed is twice its usual temperature, and when an arm rigidly splays across his bare waist.

_“Stop yellin’,”_ He manages a hiss-groan. “Kiyoomi’s still asleep.”

“Oh. It’s already ‘Kiyoomi,’ huh.”

It is, he realizes. It is three syllables as blatant as the fingernail scratches down his back. It happens, as organically as every other affection in Atsumu’s life.

“Love him well, Tsumu.” His twin’s words double as virtual pats upon his bedhead. “Put him first.”

Atsumu puts Kiyoomi last - as the last one he may ever love.

The arm hugs him close, like the last body it may ever grasp.

==

Rumors manifest, trailing his devastation at a fateful list of words.

_2022 Japan National Team,_ the title reads, bold and foreboding.

_Outside Hitters._ 11 names. _Sakusa Kiyoomi_ near the top.

_Setters._ Four names. One the source of fervent Jackals recruitment whispers, and none bearing just two kanji characters.

Through omission, his first love abandons him in the winds of withering ability. Brilliant prisms of success diminish into yesterdays, the beginning of an end.

That end - a forced separation, a rooftop waltz interrupted. Kiyoomi. _Kiyoomi._ All flawed plays and broken promises imminent. His last love, an inevitable loss to another pair of setter hands.

Atsumu runs, speeding through Osakan streets without catalyst - aching for teenage skydances, for the chance to start anew and retain control.

In their bedroom, a drawer opens to opportunity in the form of neglected papers, two days from expiration. The contract is 10 pages of jargon outside of his linguistic and legal knowledge, but the words declare loyalty to his tosses, and euros converted into yen evoke a new metric of success.

He signs above the dotted line, lends his body for one year. _Just one year with my first, Kiyoomi. It’ll pass in a flash._

Damaged pride is an immediate scenery on the Shinkansen, blinding him from the peace of mind that sustains, declaring patience and belief in seaside admissions too arduous. He yearns to have his love reciprocated, _thrives_ in the pledge of being needed. All compulsion, nothing organic.

_Paris?_ Sure. _Paris?_ Now.

==

“I ignored, where I was already wanted.”

== 

He exists without peace of mind. A chase for empty wants reduces to footsteps, passing Rue de Rivoli storefronts whose owners mistake him for tourist on the daily. Every euro he earns, saved, like it’s his last worth in the world.

The National Team coordinators beckon him to return, he refuses - _you lost me after that first rejection._ They stop asking.

Motoya doesn’t ever message back, outside of one last text dated eons ago - _you lost Kiyoomi-kun when you got on that plane._ Atsumu stops asking.

Among dormant apps on his phone, one friend request on a private Instagram, unresponsive.

Paris nights drowned in imported sake, French kisses planted in Osaka. Memories. He needs. He remembers. A number recorded by heart not by speed dial, +81 the added prefix.

“This number has been disconnected.”

==

The ringtone sounds long before his alarm, connecting vibrations to neurons. This morning, it’s _his_ arm that splays across a slim waist, rested muscles unbothered by the disturbance.

An abrupt quiet, quiet, _quiet_ \- then another round of ruckus.

Kiyoomi groans with discomfort, and Atsumu relents.

“Why didn’t ya pick up?!” The early bird, somehow his genetic clone, scolds from the other end.

“Why do ya always call before 7am?!” Three years since sharing his bed, he has mastered the hiss-groan - conveying indignance without ever arousing his other half.

“Ya _know_ I have ta catch ya before rice prep…” Osamu deadpans, all matter-of-fact. “Anyway, figured I’d warn ya that mom and dad are getting impatient. They thought ya would at least get _engaged_ after the Olympics.”

“Why me? _Yer_ the one who’s been datin’ for five years already.”

“They already know Rin and I aren’t in a hurry. And yer the _first son,_ Tsumu.”

“Right, by two _whole_ minutes…”

It’s 120 seconds of seniority, shorter than most of his played rallies, but it comes with a lifetime worth of extremes: authority on one end, obligation on the other.

“We’re busy preparin’ for National Team selection, Samu.” He decries responsibility with the latest excuse. “I’ll figure it out at some point.”

Right then, Kiyoomi snuggles closer to his side, protesting lost warmth. Atsumu’s heart lurches - _sometimes, I think -_ but instinct loses to half-conscious scrutinies.

They’re at the prime of their careers, a first love still flourishing with no end in sight. He has long decided that others can wait - _have_ waited dutifully, in one body that revels under his touch night after night.

“Is Kiyoomi-kun okay with that?” Unlike his tedious cuts in the kitchen, Osamu minces no words. “He seems like someone who wants stability, somethin’ long-term…”

“I’m perfectly stable. I just have a lot left to give to volleyball - Kiyoomi does, too.” _He flies, for the faultless parabola that only I provide._

His twin laments with rare, sincere concern.

“Dun’ give away too much, Tsumu. Dun’ squander a good thing.”

“Huh?”

“Ya’ve always loved everythin’ with all yer heart. Volleyball the most.”

“And...?”

“It might boil over and overflow. Just be careful, or a lot might go to waste.”

==

His love, always a favorite t-shirt overwashed, water damage upon screenprint marking endless ironies - to care for, to _love_ something, anything, _everything_ with all his might, yet only leave wear and tear behind.

_“Did you ever love me? More than volleyball?”_

Everything, anything, something, nothing.

_Was I ever your peace of mind?_

_Or was I nothing in the end?_

A nothing, after all, for nothing should ever measure up to a first love.

But here - _Paris, sure. Paris, now_ \- his tunnel vision fulfills so little in its short-term pursuits. On courts across Europe, tosses deliver to negligible arms, dominant in spiked finishes yet inconsequential to his daily life. A ball’s loyalty grows trivial, slotting low in a totem pole of routine filled with bowls of cheap tonkotsu ramen and rewatched recordings of a 194-cm frame.

Number 15, a diminishing figure in the distance - one year apart, and endless years of a good thing squandered.

_No, Kiyoomi. You_ do _measure up. And I, I,_ I _am the nothing._

Atsumu protests lost warmth, and reaches for one remnant vow. Unspoken, unbroken.

_No, Kiyoomi. I’ll earn back peace of mind. I’ll earn back everything._

Without fanfare, his contract renews for the first time, padded income a proof of his increased worth and belonging. He stares as extra euros trickle into his savings account, submerged and not to be accessed. The numbers rest upon an ocean floor, preparing to be drawn afloat, to surface above a liquid horizon visible from every window.

He treads alone on the court, using his first to salvage lost walks and missed dances - to somehow, again, be deserving of his last.

==

_[Meet me where we used to be]_

_[Please, Kiyoomi]_

==

The shadow enters his vicinity from behind, movements ceasing as the silhouette blankets wood next to his seated form. Atsumu knows the root of the pause, that ritualistic admiration of beauty, spread far and wide from this scenic overlook.

Here. Hiroyama Park. Where they used to be.

A body crosses over to the front of the bench - their chosen one - settling down the weight of all 194 centimeters but not thirty-eight wordless months. Atsumu needs no turn to admire this particular sight, for the last video beheld dates only one week ago, and the imagery of its subject implants deeper than any waters ahead.

Kiyoomi, a striking figure within reach - three years apart, and glinting hopes of a good thing recovered.

Upon stiff hands placed over dark shorts, another glint. But before the source comes into focus, Atsumu extends his own token of reshaped metal, its presence subduing perpetual silence.

“What...is this?” From the other end, more a melancholy than a curiosity.

“Home.” Atsumu blinks, lashes flicking away the mists of their tragedies. “Here, along the bay. Like ya once wished.” 

Above his calloused palm, the bronzed surface of a key, shifting gold by sunlight. Home, bought with tithes collected from self-imposed duties - 100 square meters, oceanview, windows opening to liquid horizons, a rooftop for dances without end.

And yet, the same rays refract from a different metal, blatant upon a left hand that had clutched his waist once upon overnights. Atsumu can’t tell - doesn’t wish to know - which finger the pure gold wraps around. He only knows how the band glints, _blinds,_ an ultimatum countering his ultimate naiveté.

So much changes in three years.

His attention shifts back to the bay. Ignorance. Bliss.

“Volleyball - everythin’ was meaningless without ya there.”

Akin to better days, he feels Kiyoomi’s watchful gaze upon him, awaiting that next set from the back court, awaiting his touch beneath a shared duvet.

“I realized that too late, but I couldn’t return - not until I could finally give ya this.” His palm offers again. “My first love, Omi, in exchange for yours.”

Kiyoomi makes no move to receive the key, but still unlocks pieces of mind stored away.

“Did you forget?”

_Sometimes, I think--_

“Did you never realize, Atsumu?”

_Kiyoomi jumps for his toss, dares to take that leap._

“I always stayed in Osaka for _you._ Not for your tosses. Not for volleyball.”

_He loves. He loved. More than volleyball._

Mt. Fuji looms in the distance, an everlasting monument denouncing the shortsighted and all failures to see beyond one’s limited whims. Buried beneath words that had always deserved Atsumu’s faith, there is the rightful accusation of _You couldn’t do the same;_ the frightening undertone that their bay is no longer redemption. 

“Omi. Forgive me.” He inches the key ever closer, pleading for its acceptance. “I ignored, where I was already wanted.”

“I can’t.”

“Take that leap for me again.”

“I won’t.”

“Ya love me?”

“Not anymore.”

Cold, cold, cold as winter. But nestled between two sunspots, skin once kissable, still a final confessional.

Atsumu prays to see three twitches - _no, even just_ one _is enough_ \- and waits.

==

Their shadows meld as one under the cloudless sky, two silhouettes conjoined atop a chosen bench. Below the staccato of a cliffside, the bay - an undying beauty espousing futures far from scoreboards or victories. For now, two combined bank accounts remain latent, its contents insufficient for much more beyond a weekend trip. But Atsumu marvels at Kiyoomi’s wishful gaze, as boundless as the sea, and puts a theory to the test.

“Ya wanna live around here someday?”

Warmth dyes a pale face, like summer in winter.

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Right then, within his array of existing ambitions arises a self-construction, rare and precious in its years-long foresight.

_Our home. Here. With directions Kiyoomi will never forget._

A promise. _The_ promise. The promise of a flawless together.

“Ya were right, Omi.” Atsumu awes at the immensity of new purpose. “I could fall for this place, too. It deserves to be anyone’s first love.”

“You want to know a secret?”

“Tell me.”

Kiyoomi kisses him, tasting of eternities that stretch past befores and afters. But his pitch black eyes, more vibrant than a thousand sunlit bays, hone in on this singular moment - an immediate scenery, no further than two hearts soaring above peaceful azure.

  
“Sometimes, I think _you_ were my first.”

**anshin** [安心] _n._  
peace of mind.

Kiyoomi (peace of mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and happy new year <3 This was a bit of an experimental piece, so I appreciate any feedback :)
> 
> \- [My Twitter](http://twitter.com/_mika60_) ([Tweet for this fic](https://twitter.com/_mika60_/status/1345173399048495106))
> 
> \- [The house by Sagami Bay](https://www.solidrealestatejapan.com/properties/oiso-oceanview-house/)
> 
> \- ETA: Many thanks to the reader/reviewer Daredemoiiyo, who notes that [Beach House's "On the Sea"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qz0IJXQ720) seems to fit this fic nicely. I didn't know of the song before, but after listening to it - I can't agree more.


End file.
